The Demon's Consequences

The actions I've made, creep down my throat.
They've began to burn,
Why did I do it, why do I care?

They were my grandchildren, my sweet dears.
Their lives forgotten,
I made the wrong choices, I did the wrong things.

Prison drifts achingly towards me, closer and closer.
Who do I blame for my evil deeds?
Is it the girl who told? Or is it me?

The gun in my hands is like a refuge from this life.
A white flag in the middle of war,
Hefting the rifle up to my head I pull the trigger,
Then fall upon the bed.

The heavy jump of the gun in my hands is my last sense.

The Devil waits for me with wide open arms,
His gnarled hands and black wings wrap around me.
Chocking me for the punishments I deserve.

Hell is my home now.

I'm not sure about the title or even the poem I wrote this up in about ten minutes with this in my head so tear it apart and help me make it beautiful

I've just gotta say that this is AMAZING! I loved how you could write about something without ever really outright saying the topic, and yet I still understood what you were writing about. I enjoyed reading this.

snickerdooly wrote:The actions made crept down my throat. Huh? Reword this.
Beginning to hurt, you can hear my croak. The first clause is really bland.
Why did I do it, why do I care. ...question mark...

They where my grandchildren my sweet dears. There're a few things wrong with this. 1) "Where" should be "were," 2) there should be a comma after "grandchildren," and 3) "dears" sounds a bit off.
The new generation of young little girls.
I made the wrong choices, I did the wrong things.

Prison grows closer, the neverending ridicule of what I have done. Waaay too long.
Who do I blame for my evil deeds?
Is it the girl who told? Or is it me? Told what?

The gun in my hands feels cold and electric, "Electric?" What?
The gun in my hands is cocked and loaded,
Ready to kill the one who is to blame. Second time you've used "blame."

Hefting the rifle up to my head I pull the trigger,
The heavy jump of the gun in my hands is the last thing I feel. Too long.

The Devil waits for me with wide open arms,
Hell is my home now, Period.

Needs some work, but it has potential. Keep writing.

-Kafka

i didnt like this much. it was good, but it just doesn't feel complete to me. the first stanza was really confusing, and the second stanza...where did that come from? it doesnt make any sense or fit into the poem that much. and the poem leaves a lot of questions. you killed yourself? why? who did u tell? why are you going to prison? what do your granddaughters have to do with it? i think this could be a really great poem, it just needs a little work

Kimalane21 I appreciate your comments/review and I just want to say that if I told you the answers to all those questions it would be way to long and probably way too graphic and or disturbing information. Sorry maybe I will write something up that explains it all but something that I enjoy to do is writing something then having people think about things diffrently according to their life. Thanks for commenting I'll try to fix up this piece!
Peace,
SnickerDooly